Page 14 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

I closed my eyes, pushing down the flicker of anger that threatened to break through. Anger was dangerous. Feeling was dangerous. I couldn’t afford to let either one in. Not now.

Not ever.

I took a deep breath. I could do this. I knew how to survive this, how to detach, how to make myself disappear into the role I was forced to play.

It was the only way to get through it.

Pushing away from the counter, I walked into my large closet, trying to decide what I was going to wear today—the last day I would have a choice for a while. The tags were all still designer, luxury that had only increased as the years had passed. Everett ensured I had everything I needed in order to take on more high-profile clients, so he could charge them more. So more money could go into his accounts, and the account he kept for me that paid for everything in my life.

What I wouldn’t give to have told myself that first day, as I’d wandered through my closet in Everett’s mansion, that those tags and those fancy clothes, they were just a trap. That I should have been happy in that run-down apartment with my dying mother. That those foster homes had actually been havens.

Because they were so much better than anything I would have after that.

I picked out a pair of tailored black shorts and a muted tan blouse that wouldn’t earn me any attention while I was out. People liked to stay in the dark about what was happening right under their noses. They didn’t want to be confronted with the darkness that permeated polite society.

At first, I thought the auction would be enough. I’d get a percentage of what the man had paid and I’d move on. I hadn’t understood what I’d chosen that night. Not at all.

But a month later when I’d had to dress up in a slutty schoolgirl costume to service a senator who liked them young, I’d finally gotten the message—this was my life now.

I was twenty-two, and I’d lost track of all their faces. Their touches haunted my nights, though.

And I never felt clean.

The phone buzzed again, letting me know what my account balance was after Tyler’s deposit, but I couldn’t have cared less; it wasn’t like I had access to withdraw the funds.

I lived in an expensive penthouse. I drove a black Mercedes, and the account to pay for my life was full of money.

And I would give every single bit of it up.

Shoving the phone into my pocket, I left the closet to head to the first of my appointments.

I had work to do.

And whatever I felt—it didn’t matter.

Because my life wasn’t mine, and it never would be.

But as I always reminded myself when my thoughts got too dark.

I’d chosen this.

CHAPTER3

LOGAN

Staring at the phone, I debated texting him for the millionth time today.

Your dad should want to come to a fucking Stanley Cup Finals game, right?

I felt like a fucking fool when I typed out my message and actually hit send.

Me: You coming tonight? I’ll have a ticket for you at the box office.

Tapping my fingers on the counter, I stared at the phone, wondering if thegreatGrant York was going to deign to answer me.

I was a tough motherfucker ninety-nine percent of the time, but when it came to my father…well, he was excellent at reducing me to feeling like a sniveling little kid again.

After five minutes, he still hadn’t answered, even though the message clearly showed that it had been read. Sometimes I wondered if he left that setting on specifically for me, just to be sadistic. To let me know that I was so unimportant he couldn’t find time to answer me promptly…about anything.

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